“I never said I was driving,” I argued, trying to wiggle against his iron grip. He glared down at me, his lips impossibly close.
His mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it and snapped it shut. He unlocked my car, still carrying me, and then dumped me into my front passenger seat.
“She’s not usually like this,” Jagger said as Grayson shut my door. “You got her?”
I opened it back up in time to hear Grayson say, “Yeah, I didn’t think you’d want her puking in the truck.”
“Amen.”
“Stop talking like I’m not right here.”
“Trust me, we’re well aware that you’re here, princess,” Grayson snapped, promptly shutting the door in my face again.
He slid behind my wheel, cursing my height while the seat took precious seconds to move back to accommodate him.
“Maybe my car doesn’t like you, either,” I slurred.
His eyes cut toward me, and he shook his head but snapped his mouth shut as he turned the key.
“So stern.” I gave my best uptight-guy impression but blew it when I descended into snickering.
“God help me,” he muttered, putting my little Cabriolet into first gear and taking us out of the parking lot.
I let my head loll back against the seat and watched the muscle in his jaw tick. Everything about him, from his eyes to the cut of his jawline, was so severe. “You’re not going to give me crap?”
“Not my job to judge,” he replied, his eyes never wavering from the road.
“Not my circus, not my monkeys, that’s what my mom says,” I said louder than I intended, my finger poking him in the shoulder. Crud, when had my hand gotten over there? I pulled it back to my lap. If I sat perfectly still, maybe he wouldn’t realize how truly drunk I was.
“Something like that.” His dismissal, that flat tone, scraped me like no amount of lecturing could have.
“Anyone ever told you it’s not good manners to be rude to your new roommate?”
He parked in the driveway behind Jagger’s Defender and glared over at me. “Anyone ever told you it’s not good manners to be dancing drunk on a bar on a Sunday afternoon?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, his shoulders dropped and he closed his eyes. “Crap, Samantha, I didn’t mean—”
I forced my door open and stumbled out, barely catching myself on the frame. “So much for not judging,” I fired back, slamming the door and entering the toddler-esque phase of drunkenness. I scowled away his offered arm and made it into the house, nearly tripping on the doorstep.
“Don’t!” I snapped when Grayson reached for me. “I’m not helpless.”
I’m pretty sure his sigh was heard in Florida as he dropped my purse on the entry table. Wait, he had my purse?
I gripped the back of the couch and took deep breaths as my head buzzed. “Here.” Jagger forced a bottle of water into my hand.
“I’m fine,” I argued.
“Sam, I said I wouldn’t give you shit, but fine isn’t exactly drunk at five p.m. on a Sunday unless it’s the Superbowl. What is going on?”
I swallowed past my numb tongue and glanced over to where Grayson stood, his arms across his chest again like a damn statue. As if on cue, the oven began to beep, and he walked past me into the kitchen. “Wow, this house smells amazing.” I wanted to lick the air now that I noticed.
“Grayson cooks. Focus, Sam.”
“Knock, knock,” Paisley drawled as she came in through the front door. “You ready to head out to dinner?”
“Hey, Little Bird.” Jagger smiled, which lit up his face like a freaking Christmas tree. Paisley wrapped her arms around his waist, and he kissed her. Love radiated from them. That was all I had wanted. Love. A chance to belong to someone—my someone. She’d had heart surgery two months ago, her scars were still pink, but it wouldn’t surprise me if Jagger popped the question soon.
“You guys are so cute I may vomit.” The room turned slightly. “Or maybe that’s the tequila.”
“I’m not letting this go, Sam. What’s going on with you?” Jagger reached over and opened the bottle of water I still clutched in my hand, and I took two long pulls.